Do No Harm
by cornergoddess
Summary: A rewrite of the episode(s) where House steals experimental drugs to regrow muscles. house!whump House/Cuddy (after they broke up)
1. Chapter 1

The beeping of an alarm clock jolted House out of his dream of floating in a gondola surrounded by a river of Vicodin. He groaned and slammed the off button. He sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. His mouth tasted like death.

Slowly, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, supporting the right one with his hands. He winced. This maneuver went better some days than others. Unfortunately, today was not a good day. House looked out the window of his bedroom to see that it was raining in sheets, coming down on the window and the ground and on his leg, making it throb incessantly.

He tried to stand, but his leg gave out from under him and he grabbed the dresser in order not to fall on his ass. Slowly, he lifted himself from his stooped position and grabbed his cane from its spot against the wall. With a death grip, he limped heavily to the kitchen to get his pills. These were the days when he was glad he lived alone.

(LINE BREAK)

Foreman walked into his office at 10 in the morning. Too early. House had been dozing in his chair with his feet up after a night of drinking and watching wrestling with Wilson. Foreman walked behind him and jolted the chair. House opened his eyes.

"Well, that was rude," he said in mock surprise.

"Got a case."

"Shoot."

"30-year-old female. Hepatosplenomegaly."

"Great," House said sarcastically. "You've got me hooked! Tell me more."

Foreman ignored his sarcasm and continued. "She also has nystagmus. Says she's never noticed it."

"So you've brought me idiopathic nystagmus in a drunk?"

Foreman sighed heavily. "Weren't you the one that always stresses Occam's razor?"

"Yes, but I also stress House's razor. The explanation that lets me go back to sleep is most often the correct one." House put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes, leaning back in the chair.

"She doesn't drink," Foreman informed, putting his hand heavily down on House's desk to wake him up.

"Mmhm. And Cuddy doesn't have amazing breasts."

"She wasn't lying, House. She doesn't drink, doesn't do drugs, and doesn't smoke. I checked her teeth. No staining. Her arms have no scarring. No singeing of nose hairs, no dilated pupils, no weight loss, nothing. Alcohol alone wouldn't cause her to have this much swelling."

House sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to get Foreman off his back if he didn't tell him to run something. "Whatever. Just run a tox screen."

"She doesn't do drugs!"

"Over-the-counter drugs could cause it too. Just do it."

Foreman sighed. "Okay. But it'll be negative."

"Five bucks."

They shook on it.

(LINE BREAK)

After Foreman left, House decided to take a walk. His leg was throbbing, and he needed it not to spasm. He limped down the hall, passing orderlies and nurses and patients and all the other lost souls who ended up at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. He could see Dr. Riggin through the research lab window. He had always thought Riggin was a show-off, with all his fancy drug trials and research. The only time he'd done a trial was in medical school when he helped his professor develop a new drug to combat Alzheimer's, and he'd only done it for class credit. Doctors needed to figure out how to use the medicines they already had before making new ones. He pushed through the door and into the lab.

"What are you curing this time? Toxic mold? Super-AIDS?"

Riggin smiled, but it was strained. He didn't like House any more than most of the people at the hospital, but he hadn't yet done anything to piss him off, so he supposed he should at least try to keep up his streak. "Hello, Dr. House. I'm doing a trial to regrow muscle. It'll help repair injuries quicker."

House froze. "Is it working?"

"On the mice it's working splendidly!" Riggin said as he injected another mouse. It squealed.

"Any side-effects?"

"Well there's been some cramping...why are you interested in this?" Riggin ventured.

"No reason. Thinking of doing a trial myself," House lied.

"Well, I wish you luck! I have to get back to work now, and I'm sure so do you."

House nodded and forced something like a smile. He needed to get his hands on this drug.

**MEDICAL GLOSSARY:**

**Hepatosplenomegaly: Enlargement of the spleen and liver with many causes.**

**Nystagmus: involuntary eye movement.**

**Singeing of nose hairs, dilated pupils, weight loss, teeth staining: symptoms of drug and nicotine use. **


	2. Chapter 2

Wilson was overwhelmed. He had three terminal cases all going at once, and one was a three-year-old girl with ALL that wasn't caught in time. She had gone through the biopsies and chemo and she was probably going to die anyway. Wilson put his head in his hands, frustrated that he couldn't do anything but make her comfortable.

"I can hear you caring. What's wrong?" House asked from the doorway.

"Nothing," Wilson answered, propping his head up on his hands.

House raised his eyebrows, sitting on the couch.

Wilson sighed. "Three-year-old girl with ALL."

"Can't help her?"

"Nope."

"Bummer."

"What do you want?" Wilson asked.

"Can't I enjoy the company of my friend?"

Wilson glared. "House, not now. What do you want?"

"Hiding from my team. They picked up a boring case and won't let it go," House told him, rubbing his leg harder than usual. Wilson picked up on it, as always.

"Leg worse today?" Wilson asked, trying to be casual.

"I'm fine," House answered, taking his hand off his leg and setting it on his cane, holding it tightly.

"That's not what I asked."

"Yes. I feel terrible. Worst I've ever felt in my life. Is that what you want to hear?" House asked, irked.

"No, of course not. I was just trying to help."

"Well don't." House stood and limped out of the office. The obvious truth was that his leg _was _worse, but he wasn't going to let it get the best of him by talking about it. He walked past the research lab. He hadn't forgotten about the drug. In fact, it was all he had thought about all night. He couldn't sleep, so he had read up on some previous trials that had tried to regrow muscle. Lots of failures, but some minor successes. House was never one to look on the bright side, but he needed this. He didn't admit it to anyone, but his leg had been getting worse the past few months. He'd been taking an hour on average to get out of bed because of the weakness and cramps, and he had adjusted his schedule based on that. Essentially, he carved out an hour each morning to be in pain, and that wasn't a way to live.

"Dr. Riggin! How are you this fine morning?" House greeted the researcher, not able to keep a note of sarcasm out of his voice.

Dr. Riggin was obviously suspicious. Why would House come in to talk to him twice in one day? Had the oncologist ditched him? "Good morning, Dr. House. I'm OK, how are you?"

"Fine. Say, you look like you could use a break. How about you go get yourself a cup of coffee? I can watch these mice for you; finish the injections?"

"That's very nice of you, Dr. House. I actually have to administer the injections because of the trial's stipulations, but if you would observe the mice for about ten minutes after their injections, that would be great, thanks."

House nodded. "I do have one question, just out of curiosity. How many injections have been effective at regrowing the muscle?"

"Well, it's been about ten on average. It does depend on the volume of muscle, though."

House nodded and watched the doctor finish up. He supposed Dr. Riggin assumed he was interested, because he talked to House about the trial the whole time he was injecting the mice.

"You have to inject in the epicenter of the muscle loss...also, they run on their wheels for about ten minutes after they get injected to stimulate growth, and about twenty minutes when they aren't getting injected. For humans, this would probably translate into physical therapy. I inject them every other day. Hopefully this will be a big breakthrough in the field of muscle development!"

House nodded along, only gleaning the important details. He must have winced a little when a particularly squeaky mouse got injected, because Dr. Riggin assured him it wasn't very painful. He wasn't so sure, especially on his damaged muscle that was sometimes aggravated by a strong wind.

"Have a good coffee!" House said cheerfully, and ushered Riggin out, closing the door behind him. Then, he took off his backpack and stuffed several doses of the sealed drug into his bag, and left. Riggin would never know. He was a socialite; always conversing around the water cooler. On his way back to his office, he also snagged a resistance band from PT when the physical therapist wasn't looking. She was too busy with a kid and his new leg. Chump.

House found himself smiling to himself on his way back to the office. His leg would get stronger, and he may even be able to ditch the cane. He almost drooled at the thought.

**MEDICAL GLOSSARY:**

**ALL: Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. One of the most fatal types of leukemia. Occurs mostly in children and originates in a different type of cell than AML (acute myelocytic leukemia).**


	3. Chapter 3

"There's nothing on her tox screen."

House twirled his cane, leaning dangerously back in his chair. "That doesn't mean she was never on drugs."

"I'm with Foreman here. There's probably something else going on with this many systems involved and that quick an onset," Thirteen agreed.

"How do you know the onset was quick?" House asked.

"That's what she said," Taub answered.

House sighed in frustration. "How many times do I have to tell you?"

"Tell us what?" Foreman asked.

"Everybody…" House gestured for them to finish the moto.

"Lies," Thirteen finished in monotone. "She's not lying about being sick, or the onset. If her liver was this bad for longer than a few months, she'd be dead."

"Either way, her white count and platelets are dangerously low. Her spleen could rupture at any minute. It needs to come out," Taub urged.

"Fine. But biopsy it and see if you find anything while you're in there," House said.

His team filed out.

After they were out of sight, House took the packaged syringe out of his backpack. He had wanted to do this last night, but he rationalized being in the hospital would be better in case the drug did something wacky to his body. He didn't want to die right when he might be about to get cured.

He limped to the nearest janitor's closet with his backpack. He'd set up a chair in there this morning, and set resistance bands on the shelf. The cleaning supplies he'd thrown in another closet.

House sat down on the plastic chair after leaning a mop handle against the door so no one could get in. He turned on the light.

The plastic of the packaging shown beneath the fluorescent glare. It looked like salvation. Unfortunately, it also looked like a huge needle that he was going to stab his bad leg with.

He sighed and told himself it would be worth it in the end. Then, he pulled his pants off, careful not to jolt his leg too much. He ran a hand over the scar tissue. The absence of something shouldn't cause so much hurt.

He took a deep breath and unwrapped the needle. Holy shit it looked big.

"You're a big boy," House snarked at himself quietly. Quickly, hands shaking, he plunged the needle into his leg, pushing down the plunger and biting his lip. Pain shot through his leg, and a groan escaped his lips. Finally, he pulled the needle out and took a few deep breaths. He felt something warm running down his chin. He touched it and pulled his finger away from his mouth. Blood. He must have been biting his lip without realizing. He leaned back against the cool cinderblock and caught his breath.

He wiped off the small spot of blood on his leg. Now came the hard part.

He took the resistance band from its spot on the shelf and positioned it under one of the chair legs. The other side he put around his ankle. Slowly, he moved his leg forward. He had to stop halfway through, panting. He felt like the leg wouldn't go forward anymore no matter how hard he tried. But he had to try. He slowly moved his leg forward again, causing his thigh muscles to clench. He bit his lip again and closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. Fire ripped through the muscles and he wanted to scream. But he didn't. Slowly, he lowered his leg. He leaned back and felt a drop of something wet run down his face and off his chin. He couldn't be sure whether it was sweat or a tear. That was enough for today. This might be harder than he thought.

(LINE BREAK)

"Why are you all sweaty? And smelly?" Wilson asked when House limped into his office uninvited.

"Went for a run," he quipped. In reality, he was on his third day of drugs and PT. He'd just gotten back from injecting.

Wilson ignored his self-deprecation and looked back down at his papers. He had scans mounted on the light box in the corner, and he felt as if his butt was glued to the chair.

"She's dead. You know that, right?" House said.

Wilson sighed. "Yes, but there might be some way to help. I can get her into a trial or something."

"She's too far along. And you know it. So why are you still trying?"

"It's my job, House. Stop trying to psychoanalyze me. And put on some deodorant," Wilson said.

House crossed into his office and sat down. His team was already there.

"She's in liver failure," Foreman told House.

"Okay. And?"

"And we still don't know what's wrong with her yet."

"Okay…" House looked at the whiteboard, which read:

HEPATOSPLENOMEGALY

NYSTAGMUS

LOW WBC/PLATELETS

LIVER FAILURE

"She has sarcoidosis," House said.

Taub sighed. "No, she doesn't. It doesn't explain the nystagmus."

"She could have a problem with her ocular nerve caused by the sarcoidosis. Biopsy her liver."

"We can't just biopsy her liver cause we think she _might _have sarcoidosis," Foreman argued.

"Seems good a reason as any," House shrugged.

"I'll do it," Thirteen volunteered.

"At least someone has regard for the patient," House said.

Thirteen grabbed the chart and left. House tapped his cane on the floor. He was in a good mood. Last night, he had looked at his leg and noticed slightly less atrophy. It could have been his imagination, but he didn't think so. The pain had been significantly better. He'd woken up that morning and gotten right out of bed; no hesitation. These were small improvements, but they made him feel as if he was getting better for the first time in ten years. It was a good feeling.

"Are you...smiling?" Taub asked, staring in disbelief.

House glowered. "Are you...still here?" he said with the same inflection.

Taub stood and started to leave. "Well, if you're in a good mood, we're in a good mood."

House shooed him and Foreman out and continued to smile slightly.

**MEDICAL GLOSSARY: **

**White count: White blood cell count. Elevated white blood cells indicate an infection and low white blood cells indicate suppressed immune system. **

**Platelets: A blood clotting agent.**

**Sarcoidosis: A chronic disease of unknown origin characterized by enlarged lymph nodes and appearance of tumors called granulomas. Has a wide range of symptoms. It's the thing they always suggest after lupus.**


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm so sorry...your daughter has graft-versus-host disease. It's-"

The sobbing mom stopped him. "I know what it is. How long?"

"Maybe a week. Normally we would give her steroids, but her immune system is so compromised that the steroids would kill her. And she didn't have much time in the first place. Steroids would decrease her quality of life. Again, I'm so sorry."

The woman's husband put a hand on her shoulder. "We did the best we could...there's no other treatment. We just have to let her go."

The mom nodded and sniffed. "Thank you Dr. Wilson…"

Wilson nodded. "You're welcome."

The woman's husband led the woman out of the office, putting an arm on her shoulder.

Wilson sighed and put his head in his hands. It had been a rough week, and it would be even rougher once the girl actually died. The parents would blame him, and he would have to call his lawyer. Again.

"Well that was rough," a voice said from across the room. Wilson looked up.

"Not now, House…"

"30-year old woman in liver failure with an enlarged spleen and nystagmus. Spleen biopsy was negative for any abnormalities."

"I can't deal with this right now, House. Please just go away."

House sat down, supporting his leg. Wilson detected a grimace, even though House tried to turn his face to the wall to hide it.

"Are you hiding from your team again?"  
"What? Why would I do that?"

"Well, you're in my office asking me for a differential and elevating your leg on a pillow. If something's wrong with your leg you can tell me."

House shrugged. "I'm not hiding. I wanted to make sure you were OK."

"No you didn't"  
"Fine, no I didn't. I just don't feel like working."

"That's something I can believe. Now can you not work somewhere else?"

"I could...but that would be no fun…" House said, rubbing his leg hard, trying to knead out a cramp. He had woken up this morning with every muscle in his leg rock hard. A hot soak had helped initially, but it was coming back. It didn't concern him, though. He'd read Riggin's report and about 40% of the mice had experienced muscle cramping at some point. It did, however, make his limp more pronounced and cause him to make faces that would definitely give him away.

His leg cramped harder despite his massaging and he winced, moving his head downward and grimacing.

"House?"

House waved a dismissive hand in his friend's direction, grabbing his leg with both hands and massaging the injured muscles with his thumbs until he loosened the cramp. He gasped, letting out the breath he'd been holding.

"Is it the weather?" Wilson asked, concerned. House nodded.

"Rain and I don't get along."

"Well, I'm not just going to watch you like this. Does anything help?"

"No. Just don't tell my team," House said, unscrewing his pill bottle and downing two Vicodin.

"I won't."

House gritted his teeth and stood. He needed to administer the medicine again. He was up to ten reps on the resistance band, but he didn't feel like he could do even one right now.

Wilson watched his friend leave, wanting to get up and help him but knowing House would bite his head off. Instead, he just watched.

(LINE BREAK)

House limped heavily down the hallway. His leg was on fire, but he was almost to the janitor's closet...just a few more feet.

His leg seized and he grabbed the wall quickly to steady himself. He looked up. He needed a place to sit down or he was going to be stuck on the floor where everyone could see him. His office mercifully stood in front of him, being across from the janitor's closet. He grabbed the doorframe and used it along with his cane to hop into his office and sit down in the armchair to the right of the doorway. He took a minute to catch his breath, then pulled down his pants carefully and assessed the damage. He tried to massage his leg but it was so sore and tight that he cried out. Quickly, he stifled the noise with his hand and made sure his office was locked and the blinds were drawn before continuing to massage out the cramp, grimacing and wincing all the while.

When he'd gotten the cramp mostly out, he took out the syringe he'd stowed in his backpack and was getting ready to unwrap it when the cramp came back with a vengeance and he dropped the syringe in favor of continuing to massage the injured limb.

"Are you OK?"

He looked up and swore. He hadn't heard the door open. Above him stood a skinny, brown-haired doctor with wide blue eyes staring at him with a sort of concerned surprise.

"How the hell did you get in here?!" House yelled at Thirteen.

"The key for the case room works on your office door too...I saw you fall. Are you OK?"

"I didn't fall," House corrected, pulling his pants over his leg, grimacing as the fabric touched the exposed nerves.

"Okay, fine. You didn't fall. Seriously, though, that looks really bad. Should I call someone for you?" Thirteen asked, gesturing at his leg. House seethed. Nobody was supposed to see his leg, not even Wilson. It was the most private part of him. He'd rather walk around in crotchless tight leather pants.

"No. Leave. Now," he ordered her, trying to make himself look as menacing as possible, but wincing as he shifted his leg by trying to sit up straighter.

Thirteen stooped down and picked up the syringe House had dropped.

"What's this?" she asked.

"You're a doctor. You figure it out."

"House...were you about to shoot up?"

"No! Just because I use pain medication doesn't mean I heroin is the logical next step!" House yelled.

"I didn't say anything about heroin, House…" Thirteen had known her boss was an addict, but she'd never expected him to stoop this low. She watched as he grimaced, rubbing his leg like he was trying to grind it into the couch. She watched as he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then opened them and looked at her.

"It's not heroin. It's an experimental drug," he said, sounding exhausted.

"Huh?"

House sighed. "I'm trying to regrow the muscles that were debrieded in surgery eight years ago."

"Is it working?"

"Yes. But if this gets out I'll have your head."

"Why wouldn't you want to tell people? If I'd found something that helped my Huntington's, I'd be shouting it from the rooftops!"

"I stole it."

"You stole an experimental drug?"

"Yes."

"How?" Thirteen asked, baffled.

"Same way you steal a candy bar. I just did it. What else do you want?"

"Okay...fine. I won't tell anyone. But can I at least take a look at your leg?"

"No!"

Thirteen sighed. "Okay. Well I'm glad it's working. And you should find a better lock for this door."

The doctor left, setting the wrapped syringe on the table next to House and closing the door behind her. She stared at the office for a second, then left to check on their patient.

**MEDICAL GLOSSARY**

**Graft-versus-host disease: an autoimmune condition where donor bone marrow cells attack healthy cells.**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Read and review! Also, what should I write the next story about? This one is finished, just needs to be posted.**

"It's not scleroderma. She doesn't have any thickened skin anyway."

"Fine. What else?"

The beeping of a pager stole the team out of their thoughts.

"She's having a seizure," Taub informed.

House sighed. "Fine! Go! But get an MRI."

The team rushed out.

House made a pained moaning sound and held his leg, rocking a little. He was trying to hide it, but it was getting much worse. He could barely stand without it giving out. Wilson hadn't noticed yet, thankfully, but he would soon. He'd make him get an MRI. Actually, an MRI was the only way he could see to figure out what was happening. He had known the mice had been having cramps but Riggin hadn't mentioned they'd been severe.

He stood cautiously and hobbled to the research room. Thankfully, Riggin was there and not getting coffee or something.

"Dr. House, hi."

House looked around. The room was conspicuously empty.

"Where are the mice?" House asked.

Riggin scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "Most of them died..."

"What?" House asked, not thinking he heard the researcher right.

"They got tumors. Turns out that while the injections did regrow muscles, prolonged use also promotes tumor growth."

"I have to go," House said and quickly limped away.

"Wait! You don't look so—" House heard Riggin start, but closed the door. House went to his office and paged Thirteen. She came almost immediately.

"How's the patient?" House asked.

"Postictal. She's sleeping off the Ativan."

House nodded. "I need an MRI."

"Huh? Why?"

"I just do!"

"Okay...you mean like now…?"

"Yes! Go schedule an MRI of the right fibular region under a false name and make sure no one's in there but you."

"It's your leg? Is it an emergency? Did you throw a clot?"

"I don't think so. Just get it. Now!"

Thirteen pulled out a tablet and tapped on it a few times, scheduling the MRI.

"Is 10:00 today good?"

"Yes. Now go test the patient's genes. Healthy adults don't just suddenly have liver failure."

Thirteen nodded and walked away, looking back at House.

At 10:00 sharp, House waited in radiology. He flipped through a magazine and tried not to think about his leg; the pain and what might possibly be taking up residence in it.

Thirteen walked up and stood next to him. "Ready?" House nodded and wobbled to his feet.

In the MRI room, he changed into a hospital gown, trying and failing not to let Thirteen look at his leg. Thankfully, she didn't say anything. He lie down on the table, grunting as he adjusted his leg. Thirteen slid an IV into his arm and pressed the button to start the contrast.

"You'll probably feel the urge to pee."

"I know. I've had an MRI before."

Thirteen nodded. "I'm gonna go back to the observation room then. Are you comfortable? Cold?"

"I'm fine. Just get on with it."

Thirteen went into the observation room and pressed the button to start the MRI. A sharp, loud, clicking sound assaulted House's ears.

"You're moving," Thirteen said through the microphone. House consciously stopped his leg from moving, tightening the muscles while biting his lip. A whimper escaped his lips.

"Are you OK?" Thirteen asked. Her boss looked pale.

"Fine...stop talking…"

Thirteen obliged and watched the scans come up. She winced in sympathy when she saw how much muscle had been resected in the initial operation. It was much more than she'd imagined. Then she looked at the scans more closely. There, clearly on the screen, were three white blobs. Tumors. Damn. She turned off the machine and sent the scan to print. Then she went to help her boss off the tray. He moaned when she helped him to his feet.

"What is it?" he asked, seeing her face.

"There's a problem…" Thirteen skirted.

"Spit it out. I'm a big boy. I can take it."

Thirteen showed him the scan. Three tumours sat near the epicenter of his muscle loss. The looked benign. It didn't matter; he wasn't letting anyone touch his leg ever again.

"I'll handle it," House told her.

"How? Are you finding another surgeon not in the hospital?"

"Something like that," House said.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: sorry for the gap; I was busy! Thanks to all who have liked and reviewed and I really hope you enjoy this chapter!**

Carefully, he lined up the supplies: scalpel, retractors, sutures, surgical glue, anesthesia, liquor, betadine, a tourniquet, and a bottle of Vicodin. The Vicodin he'd taken three of an hour ago and washed down with a swig of liquor. He took four more now and did the same.

He lifted himself into the bath, wearing old clothes he wouldn't mind getting bloody. He pulled off his pants and carefully tied the tourniquet around his hip. The damaged muscles bulged under the pressure, which was what he wanted because that would mean the tumors would also bulge. Also, he didn't want to lose too much blood. That was another thing he had gotten from the hospital: blood. It was just in case; the tumors were close to the surface. He was expecting to be in and out in less than a half an hour.

The films hung by a hook on the shower wall so he could see the placement of the tumors. He took a deep breath and squirted the betadine over his leg, making sure to get the whole thigh. He injected the anesthesia into the muscles and started to cut.

The first cut send a bloom of blood running down his leg and onto the cool porcelain of the bathtub floor. He cut through the skin carefully, biting into a surgical rag to muffle the sounds he was making. It wasn't horrible at first; the liquor and Vicodin masked the worst of the pain. Once he got to the fascia, though, his leg started to ache sharply. He moaned in pain, pushing his head against the wall. He made himself continue, though.

The blood was running freely now, pooling in the wound. He grabbed the suction from the TV tray and turned it on. He screamed. It felt like his skin was being pulled off. _That's why no one does this awake, _he thought bitterly.

He took a deep breath and suctioned the rest of the blood out. He was almost to the tumors now. They were deeper than he had initially thought. He was at the muscle and he still couldn't see them. Shit.

He could feel sweat pouring down his face and dripping into the wound. He wiped it with a cloth and injected more lidocaine. He kept cutting. He could see the first tumor now. It was the one on the right side, clinging to the side of the resected muscle. He pulled it out and howled in agony. He leaned back and caught his breath, closing his eyes. When he opened them, the world blurred before him like he was in a submarine. Time for the blood.

With shaky hands, House slid the needle into his arm. He thought he'd hit the mark but wasn't 100% sure. It would have to do. He hung the bag on the toilet paper holder and continued. The pain was getting worse, taking over the muscles in his body and making them shake. He could no longer cut in a straight line, and his hand was infirm. Barbs shot into his leg, and he screamed, muffled by the cloth. He screamed for what seemed like forever.

When he finally stopped, he knew what he had to do. He grappled for his cell phone, shaking, bloody, gloved hands reaching down to the floor to retrieve it. He pressed one. Wilson.

House listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times...voicemail. He tried again, pressing one. One...two...three...damnit, Wilson, pick up. Wilson was always there when he needed him, always picked up. Where was he?

He pressed two. His woozy brain couldn't remember who was on number two. The phone rang once...twice…

"Hello?" a tired voice greeted him. He would recognize it anywhere. Cuddy. Goddamnit; she was the last person he wanted to talk to. She'd broken his heart, and he hadn't spoken to her about anything but business in two months. He needed her, though.

"Need...help…" he rasped. His head lolled to the side. Cuddy must have heard the urgency in his voice, because when she answered next, she was fully awake.

"House? What happened? Did you overdose?"

"No...tumors...surgery…" He tried to make her understand, but he wasn't sure he understood anymore. The world was a blurry mess, and his head felt light. His neck was rubber, and when he looked down at his leg, he could see blood gushing from it.

"Just...come…" he slurred, then let the darkness carry him away.


	7. Chapter 7

Cuddy was awake now. She sprung from her bed and grabbed her housecoat, and was about to run out the door when she remembered: Rachel. She couldn't leave Rachel alone in the house; what if she woke up and cried and her mom didn't come?

She rushed into the nursery and grabbed Rachel out of the bed, wrapping her in the blanket. Rachel cried immediately, howling into her mom's chest.

"It's OK Rachel...it's OK...guess what? We're going to see your friend House! Do you remember House?" she soothed.

Slowly, Rachel stopped screaming and looked up at her mom, big blue eyes staring up at her.

"Howse…?" she said in the adorable way Cuddy knew her ex-boyfriend secretly loved.

"Yeah! We're going to see House! Come on; let's go!"

Cuddy quickly buckled her daughter into the booster seat and floored the gas as much as she could without speeding too much. When she reached House's apartment, she banged on the door.

"House! Open the door!" she yelled inside. Nobody answered. Then she remembered. Of course; the key. She still had it. She pulled it from her purse, slotting it into the lock and turning. She was in. She set Rachel already half asleep on the couch.

"Stay there baby, OK?" Her daughter nodded sleepily, her eyes shutting. Cuddy rushed around, calling for House. Finally, she got to the bathroom. She opened the door and saw House, arms splayed out and head lolling over the side of the bath. When she got closer to the unconscious man, she saw that blood covered his right leg and gloved hands.

"House?!" she yelled, panicked. This caused Rachel to wake up and cry, but she ignored it, hoping her daughter would go back to sleep.

Quickly, she checked House's pulse. It was thready. She shook him.

"House, wake up!"

Slowly, the man's eyes opened a slit. He groaned. He was pale and sweaty, and Cuddy knew if she didn't get him to the hospital soon he'd go into shock.

"House, I need to get you out of the tub. I'm calling 911."

Suddenly, House's hand shot out, missing its mark of Cuddy's wrist. "No...hospital...just...cut out...tumor…"

"What? What the hell are you talking about? What did you do?"

Then Cuddy noticed the scan hanging from the hook on the wall of the shower.

"Is that you?" she asked, pointing. House nodded, eyes unfocused.

"Okay, it'll be OK. We're going to the hospital."

"No ambulance...OW!" House yelled as he shifted his leg by accident. Involuntary tears fell from his eyes, and Cuddy couldn't tell if they were from pain, frustration, or something else. All she knew was she wasn't going to be able to get House onto an ambulance.

"Okay...okay...no ambulance. I need to wrap it up though. It's going to hurt and I'm sorry."

House nodded, looking like he was going to pass out again. Cuddy slapped his arm. "Stay awake," she commanded. She grabbed a towel from House's bathroom closet and lifted his leg so it sat under. House howled when she moved his leg.

"I'm sorry...almost done...please sit still…" Quickly, she wrapped the towel tightly over the wound, her ex-boyfriend still howling uncontrollably at her touch.

"I'm done! It's OK! Please stop…"

He stopped, sniffling and grimacing in pain. She had never seen him this bad.

"Okay, we're gonna get you out. Use your left leg to stand, OK? And take deep breaths. Do you still have that wheelchair?" Cuddy asked. House nodded.

"Okay, I'll get that. Where is it?"

"Closet…"

Cuddy rushed to the closet and wheeled the chair out. She noticed her daughter was awake.

"Howse…?" she asked tiredly.

"Later. Stay right there. Don't move. Like a statue, OK?"

Rachel nodded, grinning and sitting on the couch.

Cuddy lifted House up on his left leg, careful not to let him put any weight on his right. He didn't scream, but his face said it all, and he was sweating and shivering.

Carefully, the administrator lifted House into the chair, grunting. She adjusted his legs so he'd be more comfortable. It didn't help. He looked like he'd pass out again.

"You can't pass out. Where are your pills?"

House pointed to the tray he'd been using for his hair-brained scheme.

Cuddy grabbed the pills and liquor and thrust them into House's hands.

"Not too much," she instructed. House's shaky hands opened the bottles and did as she said. Cuddy grabbed Rachel and strapped her in the back of the car. Then she went back for House. Carefully, she wheeled his chair down the three steps to her car, lying him in the back seat. He bit his lip until it bled, trying not to make noise. Cuddy hopped in the driver's seat and started towards the hospital.

"Argh!" Rachel said gleefully, staring at House expectantly.

"Argh!" he said back weakly, squeezing his eyes shut when Cuddy drove over a pothole.

"Sorry!" she said from the front seat. Rachel reached over and grabbed his hand, playing with his long fingers.

"Howse," she grinned. House tried to smile back at her but only winced. At another bump in the road, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped against the leather of the back seat.

"Howse wake up! Mama said no sleepy!"

"Rachel, is House asleep?" Cuddy asked, dreading the answer. Her daughter nodded.

"He was tired," she said.

Cuddy drove even faster.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Last chapter! Thanks for all the reviews guys! I don't really know what to write next so if you have any ideas, please let me know. I think I may write a crossover with Grey's anatomy but who knows!**

The car pulled up at the hospital at one in the morning. Cuddy leaped out of the driver's seat and yelled into the emergency room.

"I need some help!"

Cameron ran out to the car. "What happened?"

"It's House...he's bleeding...he needs to get out of the car…"

Cameron sprung into action, opening the car door and checking House's vitals. "Get me a gurney!" she yelled into the ER. Two nurses ran out with one and helped her get House strapped onto it. He was limp as a dishtowel. The nurses and Cameron rushed him into the ER.

"What happened?" Cameron asked Cuddy again.

"He...I don't know...I think he had tumors in his leg and he tried to cut them out on his own. Here, I brought the scan…"

"He...what?" Cameron asked.

"Just look at the scan," Cuddy commanded, thrusting it out. Cameron looked.

"Okay, I'll call a surgeon right now."

Cuddy nodded. "My daughter's in the car…"

"Brenda, can you please get Dr. Cuddy's daughter and bring her to Dr. Wilson's office?" Cameron asked.

The nurse nodded and left to retrieve Rachel. Cameron went over to House. His heart rate was fast and his blood pressure was low. A blood transfusion had been started. He was unconscious, so Cameron pulled back the makeshift dressing on his leg. The towel had been soaked through, so she threw it in biowaste. Putting on gloves, she probed the wound. It was deep; she could feel muscle and tendon. Why would House do this to himself?

"I'm calling a surgeon," Cameron informed Cuddy. "Who's his medical proxy?"

"I don't know...it might be Wilson?"

Cameron pulled up one of House's pre existing charts on a tablet. "Actually, it's you."

Cuddy was stunned. House always blamed her for the infarction, although he also blamed Wilson. Regardless, she'd never have thought she was his proxy.

Seeing Cuddy's stunned look, Cameron explained. "You're his primary physician, so you're his proxy by default."

House moaned then, stirring. Cameron and Cuddy both looked over.

"House?" Cuddy ventured. He moaned again. Cameron turned up his morphine a little.

"No surgery…" House begged.

"You need surgery to repair the leg and resect the tumors, House," Cameron said with an air of finality.

"Fine...but I want her in there…" House said, pointing a shaky finger at Cuddy.

"House, I'm too close to the situation...I don't think it's a good idea," Cuddy said.

"Need you in there...so they don't chop my leg. She's there...or no surgery," House ground out through gritted teeth.

Cuddy sighed, seeing she had no choice. "Okay. I'll be there. I won't let them amputate unless it's absolutely necessary."

House nodded slightly and drifted back into unconsciousness.

(LINE BREAK)

Half an hour later, House was wheeled into the operating room. Cuddy walked beside the bed. As an afterthought, she slipped her hand into his. He squeezed it slightly, looking up at her hazily.

"Don't leave…"

"Don't worry; I'll be in there the whole time."

"Rachel…?" House asked. Cuddy was surprised. She never thought he cared all that much for her daughter.

"She's fine. She's with her Uncle Jimmy."

House snorted. "He can babysit your kid...but not answer his phone…"

They wheeled into the operating room and a nurse slipped something into House's IV. His eyes drooped. A mask was thrust over his face and he was told to take deep breaths. Cuddy looked on from his side, making sure he knew she was there until he finally fell asleep.

(LINE BREAK)

Hours passed, and the surgery was finally over.

"You go on home. I'll stay with him," Wilson had offered. Cuddy didn't want to go, but Rachel needed to get home and get some sleep, so she left.

So, it was Wilson whose face House saw when he opened his eyes. Even, in his drugged state, his hands groped for his leg.

"It's still there, House," Wilson assured him.

House nodded and relaxed a little. "Can't be bothered to answer your phone, Mr. Important Doctor?"

Wilson sighed. "I fell asleep at my desk and I think it died. I'm sorry, House."

House seemed to accept this. "How's my patient?"

"You were right about the gene thing. Acid sphingomyelinase deficiency."

House nodded, noticing his friend looked upset.

"Did she die?"

"Did who die? Your patient?"

"Your cancer girl."

Wilson nodded sadly. Her family had surrounded her and said their goodbyes, which had been good at least. Wilson would be attending the funeral on Monday.

"Hey Jimmy?" House waved a hand in front of Wilson's face.

"Hm? Sorry; I zoned out. Is there any point in asking why on earth you would cut into your own leg?"

"Not really. Took an experimental drug and it caused tumors."

"Why didn't you tell me you were taking something?" Wilson asked.

"Only tested on mice."

"Well that's idiotic."

"I was desperate," House whispered. Wilson's tone softened.

"We can get you some help; get a new pain regimine...maybe see a specialist?

House shook his head. "I went to one before; remember? Didn't help."

"We can try another one," Wilson suggested.

"No. Hey Jimmy, I have to pee."

"I'll call a nurse."

"No catheter. I can get up," House said, already starting to adjust his body for the movement.

"No! House, you just had surgery!"

House ignored him and stood. Immediately, his leg gave out and he caught himself on the bed rail, sliding to the ground. Wilson sighed.

"Told you so…" he muttered as he helped his friend to the toilet.

Once he had done his business, Wilson got him back into bed. House closed his eyes, exhausted from the effort. Wilson let him sleep.

(LINE BREAK)

In the morning, House opened his eyes to the sound of a child giggling. He looked over to see Rachel sitting on Cuddy's lap.

"What are you doing here?" he asked Cuddy.

"Why wouldn't I be here?"

"I didn't think you'd be back after…"

"Of course I am. And Rachel wanted to see you. She has a present for you."

"Oh, she does? Is it a nice aged bourbon?"

"No!" Rachel cried, and thrust out a piece of paper. House unfolded it carefully. It was a drawing of him and Rachel on what looked to be a pirate ship. They were both smiling.

"Thanks Rachel…" he said. But he wasn't looking at Rachel. Instead, he set his eyes on Cuddy. She nodded. She understood.


End file.
